


grounded and giving

by notanescalator



Category: Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Canon Divergence, F/M, First Time, Jaime still doesn't understand the Art of Seduction, Jaime waxes lyrical about Brienne and can you blame him, Tyrion doesn't ask the Virginity Question, fluff and sex, he does not go back to Cersei
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-05-29
Updated: 2019-05-29
Packaged: 2020-03-26 14:34:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 11,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19007761
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/notanescalator/pseuds/notanescalator
Summary: It sounded like something out of some exaggerated, flowery poem, or smallfolk tale, but Jaime felt the cold less to look at Brienne. How wonderful it was to see her, at last, as she should be - admired, respected,elevated. She stood amongst the training soldiers like some religious icon or guardian, imparting some intangible strength.“I came to Winterfell because…” He trailed off, hopelessly. After all he had been through, after all he had fought, how could he be so terrified ofthis?-[Canon divergence for season 8 episodes 4 to 6. i.e. a fix-it for their first time and the nonsense that followed, and filling in the gaps]





	grounded and giving

_ “You vouch for him?” _

_ “I do.” _

_ “You would fight beside him?” _

_ “I would.” _

When all was said and done, wasn’t that what had sent him hurtling north, at last, away from Cersei?

He could stand her cruelty and coldness when it was just the two of them against the world, when he had nothing to protect but their love and their children. When he was seen by all as a man who had no time for oaths, for principles. He virtually became the underhanded monster that they made him out to be.

But Jaime, captive of Catelyn Stark, of  _ Brienne _ , the Jaime who lost his sword hand, fought for Brienne’s safety, and for the safety of the Stark girls. That Jaime did not belong with Cersei, who sank further into bitterness and hate as he had crawled from it. He couldn’t watch her drown in it.

But he didn’t so much run away _ from _ , as run away  _ to _ . He had made a vow, and he intended to keep it. But more than that, someone was pulling him up to the biting cold of the North. 

The woman he wanted to fight beside. To be beside.

***

It sounded like something out of some exaggerated, flowery poem, or smallfolk tale, but Jaime felt the cold less to look at Brienne. How wonderful it was to see her, at last, as she should be - admired, respected,  _ elevated _ . She stood amongst the training soldiers like some religious icon or guardian, imparting some intangible strength. 

“I came to Winterfell because…” He trailed off, hopelessly. After all he had been through, after all he had fought, how could he be so terrified of  _ this _ ? 

But love was terrifying, he realised. If he knew nothing else about it, he knew that. How it made you feel, what you were willing to do for it, how it could so easily lay you to waste. He couldn’t imagine that loving Brienne - if she would let him - could be so terrifying as loving Cersei, for they were so different, their love born in different places. But that was precisely the problem. Cersei took him as he was, with all the ugliness and contradiction in him. That relationship required loyalty, but no change. Brienne too; she accepted him as she was, had vouched for him. But _ he _ wanted to be better for her. Better still. He wanted to be able to believe that he deserved her, even if it was madness.

He looked at her, seeing a mixture of confusion and anticipation in her eyes. He couldn’t say it all yet, but he had another truth to spare.

“I'm not the fighter I used to be. But I'd be honoured to serve under your command. If you'll have me.”

Even if she couldn’t love him, she would always have his sword, he knew. Looking at her now, tired and bewildered and beautiful in the cold light, he would ride all the way from King’s Landing again to see her. From further, if necessary.

***

Jaime looked at Brienne’s face in the glow of the firelight, and wondered if he might be wasting an opportunity. This battle with the White Walkers might be the end of him, the end of all of them in fact. Many would be snatching these precious last hours to be with the one they loved, or even just one they desired. A last grasp at life before death marched on them all. He could ask for a word with Brienne alone, try to spit out what he needed to say, the words sitting heavy on his tongue.

But he was afraid she might get the wrong idea. That he just wanted some hurried tumble to kill time and take their minds off the Walkers. If he was going to be with her, he wanted to do it right. He wanted time to kiss her, to lie in her arms, to bring her pleasure over and over again. And the things that he wanted to tell her could not be rushed through. 

No, he would rather go to battle tonight with his allegiance, his respect for her unquestioned. And if they were fortunate enough to survive, then there would be plenty of time to share his feelings. 

“I don’t even want to be a knight,” Brienne muttered.

_ Liar,  _ he thought. Absurdly, it almost made him smile, to understand how well he knew her.

For now, he would just have to show his love another way.

“Any knight can make another knight. I'll prove it.” He drew his sword with sudden, vivid purpose (maybe a little melodramatically, but he couldn’t help wanting to outdo Tormund), and walked away from the semi-circle of chairs. “Kneel, Lady Brienne.”

She stared hard at him, eyes wide with wonder and perhaps fear, and then she scoffed. Jaime pushed down the uncomfortable realisation that she thought he was teasing her. 

He steeled his tone: “Do you want to be a knight or not?” He nodded at her, eyes sharp and serious.  _ This is not a joke. I will never again stand by and let anyone treat you as a joke. _ “Kneel.”

Brienne sent furtive glances between him and Podrick. 

_ Come on, you don’t need the boy’s say-so. Or mine _ , he thought, but he nodded in reassurance all the same.  _ If you’d have held me down and  _ demanded _ I make you a knight, I would have done so gladly.  _ The thought hit him low with arousal, but he schooled his features.

Slowly, she approached him, as if this was all just a prank and the floor might tumble beneath her feet. As she stood before him, at last on solid ground, her eyes fixed on his and suddenly he was afraid that she might read everything there. He didn’t want that yet, wanted it in his own words, not interpreted. She might miss something important. 

So he lowered his gaze to his sword, and she knelt in a fluid motion, as if finally performing something she had been rehearsing for all her life. Which she was, after all. He chanced a look at her face, the emotion swelling there, and felt caught up in it. Not just his feelings for her, but the understanding of what this meant to her. How she had approached it with such incredulity, despite deserving it so much. 

His throat felt tight, his lungs taut. He flexed his hand around his sword, maintaining his grip, maintaining his composure. 

As he lifted his sword, he opened his mouth, took a moment to ensure his voice would come out steadily. “In the name of the Warrior-” he carefully touched the blade to her right shoulder, “-I charge you to be brave.” 

_ As you reminded me to be brave. _

The others were watching intently, he knew, but he felt as though they were on the other side of a wall, allowed to witness it but forbidden from interfering.

“In the name of the Father-” he moved the sword to her left shoulder, “-I charge you to be just.”

_ As you reminded me to be just. _

“In the name of the Mother, I charge you to defend the innocent.”

_ As you reminded me to defend them. _

He removed his sword reluctantly, as if taking his own hand from her shoulder. When looked up at him, he could see the tightness in her mouth from trying not to cry. Her eyes were shining. It was too much.

He wanted, with sudden, stomach-churning urgency, to cup her face, to kiss her. If they were alone, perhaps he would have given in. But they had an audience, and this was  _ her _ moment. There was something almost sacred about it. So instead, he said:

“Arise, Brienne of Tarth, a knight of the Seven Kingdoms.” 

She got to her feet, a smile pulling at her lips, and her eyes were full of so much he thought he could understand and some of it he desperately hoped for. Beneath the gratitude, the happiness, the  _ relief _ , there surely was something else. Something intimate, meant only for him. Perhaps this was the perfect moment, after all.

But the sudden burst of applause reminded him that they were not alone, and dragging his eyes away, he knew that was not a moment to be shared.

Instead, he would commit the glorious smile on Brienne’s face to memory. And so even if he went to his death tonight, he could take it with him.

**

Jaime’s body burned as though the dragons had set it aflame. He leant against the wall, breath heaving painfully, and grimaced as he fleetingly recalled how that might have been his fate, had it not been for Brienne’s intervention, and Sansa’s trust in her. His muscles ached, and he could feel the slickness of blood on his skin from the various wounds the Walkers had gifted him. His lungs still hurt, and he wryly thought how typical it would be if he had survived the battle only to die of smoke inhalation.

Brienne materialised in front of him, a frown wrinkling her brow, a livid mark blooming around her eye. He couldn’t remember when she had left his side and wondered if he had fainted at some point. Surely, she would’ve been there to catch him like last time?

“You should get yourself looked at,” she told him sternly, casting her eyes over him. And then in a demonstration of her singular bluntness, added: “You’re quite badly wounded.”

“Soon enough. I think I’ve earned a rest, don’t you?”

“Jaime…”

“Oh come  _ on _ ,” he gave her a tired version of his rakish smile. “We just survived a battle against the dead. Relax a little.”

She blinked hard in exasperation, and raised her chin at him. “Of course. Why should the threat of infection stop you celebrating? Maybe you’ll lose a leg this time.”

He dropped his mouth open, only partly exaggerating his surprise. He was about to retort that losing his hand had not been his fault, but judging by the way Brienne’s mouth was set, her gaze drifting, she had spoken more harshly than she had intended.

_ She’s worried,  _ he realised.  _ She always gets more rude when she’s worried. Well, with me, anyway. _

“What about you, then?” he asked, gently. “You’re in just as poor shape as I am.” As he said that, he became uncomfortably aware of how true that was. With her armor still on, he couldn’t see most of her injuries, but he could tell by the way she was holding her body that she was in pain. And he had seen her attacked enough tonight to surmise the damage.

His stomach turned as he remembered her screams, and how after that he had been even more determined to keep close to her.  _ I can die,  _ he thought,  _ fuck knows I’ve earned it. But she has to live.  _

Of course, she had been the one to keep him alive too, so his romantic sensibilities had served him pretty well.

Finding herself the focus of concern, Brienne regained her stubbornness. “I was making my way there too,” she insisted, though judging from her uneven tone, he thought she might be lying. “You might as well come with me.”

“There are other people that need it more than me,” he replied, and he believed that was true. But it was also likely to satisfy her enough to leave. “I’ll head along soon.”

She didn’t move, though. She stood firmly, her eye contact unwavering. He looked back at her, shifting slightly.

“ _ What? _ Are you going to drag me down there?”

“I might,” she replied, and there was a playfulness in her voice now. “I could do it, you know.”

He couldn’t help but smile. “I’m well aware.” 

They looked at each other warmly for a few moments, and he realised that she was right - being laid low by infection would interfere greatly with his plans, but not for celebration. All those things on his mind while he had knighted her still needed to be said, and collapsing halfway through might spoil the atmosphere a little.

“Very well, you win.” He stood up straight, and then adopted a formal demeanour. “Will you escort me, Ser Brienne?” 

She smiled, radiant and unrestrained, at him. And maybe blood loss was getting to him after all, but he thought that this was what he had survived for. To have her look at him like this, again and again.

“Right this way, Ser Jaime.”

***

After the mass funeral, Jaime had never expected the evening to descend easily into frivolity and debauchery, but at first it felt like he had been invited to some awkward family gathering. The waves of awkward energy coming from the head table reached him even where he sat with Brienne, and he was starting to formulate excuses to escape with her when the Baratheon boy got his title and the atmosphere shifted at last.

Voices got louder, jokes got more crude, and people began to abandon the hall in favour of more physical pursuits. He wasn’t drunk, by any means, just pleasantly tipsy. But Brienne was still conspicuously sober, and he had to take her hand to stop her covering her cup. She looked down at where they touched, caught off guard, and it took every bit of self-control for him to let go afterward.

“We fought dead things and lived to talk about it. If this isn't the time to drink, when is?”

He made it sound as reasonable as he could, looking at her in a way that was likely embarrassing in its tenderness. It wasn’t really about getting her drunk, it was about sharing this moment with her, forsaking everything but this. He wondered how to communicate that without giving everything away.

But he didn’t need to. Clearly, there was clearly something in his face or voice that she responded to, as she nodded and raised her cup to his.

“Fine. But if you pass out I’m not carrying you upstairs. I’ve spent enough time dragging you around.”

Her eyes wrinkled as she took a mouthful, giving her joke away, and he grinned as he lifted his own cup.

“I think that’s fair.”

*

“You were married. Before Sansa.”

Tyrion grimaced and looked conspicuously at Jaime, as if he might cover for him. A foolish mistake.  

“Drink!” he ordered, and Tyrion shot him a look of exaggerated betrayal before grudgingly complying.

Jaime turned to Brienne, whose face was aglow with triumph. He felt a ridiculous flood of pride and adoration, as if she had achieved something much more miraculous than win a point in a drinking game. She seemed to feed off it, comfortably drunk now and without concern, and she took her next turn without much apparent consideration.

“You’re drinking wine but you prefer ale!”

“No!” Tyrion answered, unnecessarily emphatic.

It was a curious place to be, Jaime reflected, drinking happily with Brienne and his brother. Not long ago he would scarcely have believed he would be afforded something so precious, ridiculous as it was. He had feared his brother lost to him forever, he had feared he would never see Brienne’s face again. The unexpected dread that her separation brought had weighed him down, and he had felt cut off from something in a way he wasn’t used to experiencing with someone other than Cersei. Brienne had changed him so much, irrevocably, and it seemed to have happened so quickly.

Tyrion opened his mouth to make his next guess, but he didn’t get the chance.

“We did it! We faced those icy fucks. Looked right into their blue eyes, and here we are.”

_ Oh for fuck’s sake. _

If subtlety failed Tormund Giantsbane when sober, it certainly wasn’t strengthened by alcohol. He all but bumped into the table as he roared down at them, and Jaime could only hope his expression was somewhat diplomatic.

He didn’t dislike Tormund, truthfully. Deep down. Deep, deep down. And he certainly respected him as a warrior, as an individual. In other circumstances, he was sure they would get on pretty well indeed. But existing circumstances had Tormund lusting after Brienne without any concealment or tact, and it was starting to wear Jaime’s patience tremendously thin. 

“Times like these, you have to make the most of it!” Tormund looked at Brienne now, with that unnervingly direct gaze he often leveled at her. “Savour each other’s company.”

Jaime tried to focus on listing all the reasons punching him would be a bad idea, starting with acknowledging that Brienne was perfectly capable of doing that herself, and ending up somewhere around the fact that him starting a fight with one of Jon Snow’s friends might deplete the already flimsy goodwill extended to him by the Starks.

Brienne stood up very suddenly, and Jaime thought,  _ oh good! She’s going to break his nose.  _ But instead, she said, tightly: “Please pardon me for a moment.” And to Jaime’s layered disappointment, she strode off with slightly drunken intent.

Tormund took a step forward and, without thinking, Jaime got to his feet, effectively blocking him. He stood there a moment, putting every bit of intimidation he could muster into his face and the squaring of his body - despite his relative size. Then, when Tormund appeared sufficiently cowed, Jaime turned and began to follow in Brienne’s direction.

It was only when he got into the corridor that his anger at Tormund and his satisfaction at subduing him wore off, leaving him without the slightest idea of what to do next. So he caught up with Brienne, what then? He had been operating under the impression that when the Moment with Brienne came, he would choose it, he would be prepared. But now it seemed as though it was upon him, and he had no idea how to proceed. 

It struck him coldly that he had never done this before. His relationship with Cersei was unconventional, to be sure. It had never involved a traditional seduction, and all their feelings seemed to have been laid out without much need for clarification. Brienne, too, understood him in a way that was uncanny. But their relationship had hostile beginnings, he had teased her about love, about sex, and she had hated him even when he trusted her. Things had changed, but despite all the moments they had shared that seemed heavy with want, this subject had never been explicitly broached.

He had always felt as though he was ahead of her in terms of their relationship. What if he had got it all wrong?

Someone bumped violently into Jaime’s shoulder, and realised he was standing like an idiot in the corridor. Brienne was nowhere to be seen.

_ Shit. _

He wandered around for an indeterminable amount of time, trying to focus on finding her and not what he would do when he did. She hadn’t gone for a piss, she wasn’t in the yard, she wasn’t in the library and - as he established in a moment of paranoia - she was not in the infirmary. He felt as though he had mostly walked off the drink by now, and in that clarity he realised she had likely gone back to her room.

When he got to her door, the nerves came back, the wine no longer helping to dull them. He forced himself to knock all the same, but the sight of her in her undershirt, tugged loose from her breeches, did not really help. He couldn’t recall seeing her in such a state of undress since they were at the mercy of Roose Bolton.

“Aha!” he said, in a moment of inspired intelligence. “Thought you might’ve run off to be a Wildling. Tormund would’ve been pleased.”

She gave him a look that indicated that was not the thing to say. She looked tired, in a way that sank beneath her skin, spiritually exhausted. The bruises and cuts from the battle were standing out angrily on her skin, and Jaime wanted to wipe them away.

“Jaime, it’s late.” She looked away from him and toward the window, perhaps confirming to herself that it was, in fact, late. “What do you want?”

He floundered slightly; it had never occurred to him that he might have to justify his presence at her door. “I was looking for you,” he replied, like it was the most obvious thing in the world. And to him it seemed to be.

She studied him, eyes narrowed ever so slightly, and then something in them softened, acquiesced. She took a step back, and he saw it as an invitation to step inside. A fire was roaring in the hearth, and its heat seemed to sweep over him as he entered, settling tightly against his skin. He walked nearer to the window, until the chill seeping from outside touched him, and he felt like he could breathe a little.

“Jaime,” Brienne was saying, as if she had had to repeat it. The door was closed now, and she was looking at him expectantly. He was trapped in here with nothing to do but seize the moment, be up front with her. All he had to do was say how he felt.

“You keep it hot enough in here,” he declared, as if scolding her for something negligent. 

“It's the first thing I learnt when I came to the North. Keep your fire going, every time you leave the room put more wood on.” She watched him shuffle around the room from a distance, as if she was afraid whatever was happening to him was catching. “Why…” She glanced down at herself, as if noticing for the first time how undressed she was. Her hand touched briefly against the fastenings of her shirt, then lowered when the action caught his eye. “Why were you looking for me?”

“You walked off in the middle of our drinking.” Jaime realised that he was resting a little too close to Brienne’s bed, and moved away, which only brought him closer to her and the fire again. “Very rude of you.”

Brienne sighed. “I wasn’t sure… how to deal with Tormund.”

“Tormund likes you,” Jaime said. It came out far too quickly, and far more like an accusation than he had intended. He wasn’t sure where the bitterness had returned from, but it was tight and unpleasant in his throat.

Brienne looked at him wordlessly for a long, uncomfortable moment. The lighting made her expression difficult to read, and it was hard to tell whether she looked more hurt, confused, or angry. Either way, Jaime wanted to take back what he said, or the  _ way _ that he said it, but he also felt like this was the only way he was going to get to the truth. There was a possibility, however much he dreaded it, that she liked Tormund in return and simply didn’t know how to initiate it. 

“I’m aware of that,” she said finally, her voice quiet and cold. 

It should have been the cue to stop, but he found that he just dug deeper. “Well, you haven’t exactly driven him away. Perhaps you don’t really want him to stop.” He shrugged at the room. “Would you like me to find him? Send him up here for you?”

Brienne opened her mouth quickly, but said nothing at first, her tongue pressing against her teeth in visible restraint. She was undeniably angry now. It radiated from her, something powerful and oddly beautiful. Jaime hated himself for inspiring it, but drank it in all the same. 

_ If she hit me now, she’d be right to do it. _

She took a deep breath, and calm seemed to find her again. “You sound quite jealous.” Her words were careful and precise, impossible to get away from. The air seemed to drain further from the room.

“Yes,” Jaime breathed out. “Yes, I do, don’t I?”

She blinked, as though she hadn’t quite expected him to agree. She seemed to be searching his face for something, and for a moment he could do nothing but look back at her.

“So do you want him?” he asked, finally. Not knowing was worse than risking her anger.

“What?”

His heart was thudding in his chest now. “Tormund. Do you  _ want him _ ?”

Brienne’s eyes narrowed, and she let out a short, incredulous laugh, as though he had just asked the most impossibly stupid question she ever heard. 

“Of course not.”

He nodded once, like a muscle spasm. “Right. Good.”

It should have been a relief. On some distant level it was, but ultimately he was left feeling just as unsure what to do now. He could sense that she was waiting, for him to do or say something she could in any way respond to, instead of him circling the room and spilling out passive aggressive observations in the hope of getting somewhere.

“It’s bloody hot in here,” he said, with a touch of hysteria. It felt a bit like his collar had pulled tighter by itself, and he started to tug at it awkwardly while Brienne stood and watched in clearly mounting exasperation.

“Oh, move aside.” She all-but smacked his hand out of the way, heroic patience finally gone, and began to loosen his shirt herself. Her fingers brushed against his neck and collarbone as she worked, and he found himself at a loss to do anything but gaze at her. There was a warmth in his body now, entirely separate from the effect of the fire, and everything to do with feeling under her control. 

He knew that she would never abuse her strength over him, but the knowledge of her strength made his skin buzz. He wanted her to strip him naked, to push him down on the bed, to guide him between her legs and tell him  _ there _ , and  _ like that  _ until he knew exactly what she needed to make her come. And if he didn’t get to come himself, then that was just tough. Did he really expect to get everything he wanted? Just like that?

Jaime looked at where the two halves of her shirt bowed near her neck, saw the well between her clavicle and wanted to put his mouth to it. He had been half-delirious in the baths that day, but he could remember her body, vaguely. It was a little like piecing together a dream after waking up, wasn’t sure how much of it he had idealised or done disservice to, but now he could be in the position to find out.

His hand drifted almost by itself to the fastenings of her shirt, but he didn’t get very far before she said: “What are you doing?”

It was a perfectly reasonable question, really, but he noticed that she didn’t seem quite so offended as surprised that he had mustered the wherewithal to do it.

“I’m taking your shirt off,” he replied, affecting an innocence that really didn’t match the situation. She reached up and removed his hands, and for a split second he thought he had blown it, and she was finally going to tell him to get the fuck out.

And then she began to undo the shirt herself. And his brain seemed to collapse in on itself. 

When he had gone to undress her, he had been picturing of the jut of her collarbone, the incline of her shoulders, the curves of her breasts and the smooth space between them. But as she began to reveal it, he found himself looking only at her face, the concentration of her features. 

When had he started wanting this? There had been a time when he believed his mind only had, only ever  _ would _ have space for Cersei, for her body and her voice, the little tics and quirks he filed away as precious purely because he loved her. But now, it seemed he had been aching for Brienne for an age, and he couldn’t process that she was standing in front of him, literally baring herself to him when once she had refused to even call him by his name.

He realised, coming back to himself, that she had stopped short of actually removing her shirt. He started to wonder if she had changed her mind, when she reached for the hem of his shirt, and he slowly understood she meant to remove it. He lifted his arms to aid her, and for a moment she disappeared from view as the fabric was pulled over his head. When she reappeared, that concentration was still on her face, as though tending to something sacred and delicate, like cleaning her sword. The sword he gave her.

She carefully extricated his golden hand, and then tossed his shirt aside. She was nervous, he realised, and acting with purpose to cover it. Not anxiety from fear, he thought, but uncertainty. 

Understandable - as far as he knew, this was still new to her. But there was familiarity in his submitting to her, and he could happily give her the comfort of having the control. 

She pulled her undershirt off and away, letting it drop to the floor without consideration. Her eyes were fixed on him now, as if awaiting some deliberation of his. He thought fleetingly of something she had said, not long after he had arrived at Winterfell.

_ “We’ve never had a conversation last this long without you insulting me. Not once.” _

He thought perhaps she might have been exaggerating, but given his gift for saying the wrong thing, perhaps not. He had, after all, come into her room, petulantly demanded to know if she wanted to fuck Tormund, and then proceeded to strip out of panic. Perhaps Brienne had more social grace than he did after all.

Her skin seemed to glow a little in the light, the bruises standing out the more for it. There were unfamiliar scars on her chest and arms, ones that hadn’t been there last time he had seen her naked, or maybe he just hadn’t noticed. It was like a tapestry detailing all that she had fought and won. 

_ Thank the gods, _ he thought, wholly uncharacteristically,  _ she survived the Walkers _ . There were men he had known of who had been knights for years and years before her, who had wrangled the title with arse-kissing and blackmail and nepotism. She was worth twenty of them.

His heart thrummed in his chest as he looked at her, suddenly overwhelmed with the reality of her, the possibility of touching her. 

“I’ve never slept with a knight before,” he said. It had sounded funny in his head, but it came out curiously timid, almost reverent.

“I’ve never slept with anyone before.”

He went to say something, something he meant to be reassuring, but he no longer trusted himself to speak. And so he kissed her instead.

He had to lean up to do it, and nearly lost his balance - perhaps the wine still held some sway over his coordination - but she seemed to catch him, one hand an anchor at his back. His strength had always been so important to him, but to feel safe, supported by her was a wondrous thing. Her fingers pressed against the flesh of his back, playing against his spine. The muscles were still sore from injury, and Brienne’s rough nails grazed the skin, but he would not have stopped her for anything.

He lifted his hand to card through her hair, surprised by how delicate it felt to his fingers, awed by the feeling of her head nestled against his palm. As he sank back to his true height, she chased him to sustain the kiss, and he swiped his tongue over her lower lip. He felt as much as heard her breath, uneven and desperate against his mouth, and he coaxed her lips open fully with his own. A sound came out of her, muffled by the kiss, that sent a lick of flame down to his lower belly. He wanted to hear more.

Reluctantly, he broke the kiss - noting, with slight amusement, her grunt of protest - and brushed his lips against her neck, running up to her ear, before opening his mouth against the skin. He gave it a firm suck, and a moan shocked out of her, wonderfully loud in his ear. Her pulse hummed against his tongue, and her head fell back, allowing him to give attention to her neck and the top of her shoulders. 

His left hand slid against her side, moving toward her right breast, and instinctively he went to mirror the action on the other side. 

Brienne yelped.

Jaime flinched back, looking up at her in alarm. “What’s wrong? What did I do?”

“No, it’s just--” To his surprise she laughed, and then - noticing how concerned he must have looked - tried to stifle it, looking sheepish. “It’s your hand. This one.” She pointed to his golden hand, inches from her chest. “I’m sorry. It’s cold.”

He looked down at it and sighed heavily.  _ Golden bloody hand. What genius that was. _

Considering for a moment, he stepped away from her and walked over to the fire, holding the hand out slightly.

“What are you  _ doing _ ?”

“What does it look like I’m doing? I’m warming it up.” It was impossible to resist acting foolish for too long, evidently. 

“...Oh for goodness’ sake.”

“Well what  _ else _ am I supposed to do?” 

“Just get back over here.” 

It was hard to deny a command like that, especially since the uncertainty was notably absent from her face now. He crossed back to her quickly.

“I just didn’t want you to lose a tit to frostb--”

She pulled him into an urgent kiss, effectively shutting him up. She wasn’t an experienced kisser, but it didn’t matter. His response was equally messy, pouring the hunger of the last few years into it. Her mouth was sour from the wine, and her lip tasted faintly of blood from a healing cut, and it was perfect. Her hands were latched onto his shoulders, thumbs flush against the base of his neck, as if holding him in place. What a silly thought. 

He would be mad to go anywhere.

Lungs burning, he forced himself to break the kiss, brushing his thumb against her jaw. He looked up into her eyes, dizzy from… everything, and almost laughed as it hit him that - in the grand scheme of things - this was so improbable. Not even that the two of them, with their hostile beginnings had ended up like this, so tied to each other. But after all their shared and separate battles, after all their goodbyes, they had been allowed to have this. That after all his sins, this incredible woman wanted him.  _ Really _ wanted him. 

He lowered his head to her right breast and opened his mouth against the curve of it, teasing her nipple with the curve of his tongue. He could hear the sighs form deep in her chest, felt her body push warm against his mouth as she chased the sensation. It went straight to his cock, pressing now against the lacings of his breeches, and his head swam - both from the urge to touch himself, and the feeling of touching her.

His left hand moved to the other breast, rubbing it carefully, coaxing the peaked nipple with his thumb before replacing it with his mouth. Her chest caught mid-breath as she gasped, her fingers running deeply through his hair and cupping his neck. She was saying something, but her breaths distorted the words.

He gave her breast a deliberate suck and lifted his head. “What?”

There was a visible second where she had to collect herself, taking a shallow breath before saying: “Get on the bed.” Her eyes were dark with arousal and determination, and for a moment he merely stared at her stupidly, intoxicated. Then he nodded.

He went over and sat on the end of the bed, fingers slipping slightly on the furs as he tried to move backwards. As he watched her walk toward him, stopping just short of his feet, he found himself speechless. Lying beneath her, half-naked and achingly hard, he felt exposed and yielding to her in a way that only fueled that ache. He was almost holding his breath wondering what she was going to do.

She kicked off her shoes and pushed them aside, sending them rolling across the floor. Her eyes were on him now, and she began to undo her breeches, fingers fumbling slightly on the laces but not slowing. His eyes flicked between her hands and her face, each holding an equal fascination for him, and then she pushed her breeches down and was suddenly naked before him. The glow of the fire was against her back, making the shape of her stand out. His gaze ran up her muscled legs, over her thighs, and to the thatch of dark blonde hair between them.

His throat went dry.

After removing his shoes, she pushed his knees apart carefully and leant there, reaching down to unfasten his breeches. Her fingers bumped against his erection as she worked, and he bit his lip to keep from groaning. She flashed him an amused look that demonstrated it was no mistake, and he went to kiss her in retaliation, but she pulled back. 

“Such a tease.”

She grinned, and then bit her lip, almost to hide it. “Lift your hips,” she said, as if it were very serious indeed. He complied so that she could tug his breeches down, and almost sighed in relief. His cock curved toward his stomach, leaking already, and he looked up at her. She met his gaze, a slight frown wrinkling her brow. It was not the reaction he was expecting, and he looked from his cock to her.

“Are you _ disappointed _ ?” If after everything, Brienne - a virgin, no less - was going to assess his dick, and say  _ oh, well, I suppose that will have to do  _ he might well roll into the fire as Daenerys had intended.

“...No,” Brienne replied, still frowning at his body, but the hesitation made him gape at her. She caught sight of his expression and jolted slightly. “No! It just...” She glared at the ceiling, frustrated as she tried to articulate. “I didn’t  _ know _ if this would happen. If we would actually… do this.” She looked at him again, as if imploring him to understand. 

Of course he did. His mind was running into hysterics with little else. He wanted to tell her, how incredible she was, how beautiful, how much he had needed her, and needed her now. Not just her body, but her company, and her loyalty, and her disdain. All of it. But telling her that seemed unbearably terrifying.

“Come here,” he told her instead. He said it kindly, and she went to him without hesitation, allowing him to pull her onto his lap. He shuddered as his cock rubbed against her stomach, and when she reached down to grasp it he pushed his face against her chest. “Fuck, Brienne…” 

Her hand was careful as she stroked him, but he could feel the strength in it, and it was all he could do not to buck his hips. The heat pooling in his gut was starting to overwhelm him, and he put his hand over hers to still it. “I won’t last if you do that.” 

He reached round to smooth his hand over her back, tracing her spine gently enough that she shivered, her hands now digging into his hips. He planted his hand in the small of her back, turning them over so that she lay beneath him. He leaned onto his right side so that he could see all of her, and trailed his hand down over her chest, her abdomen, and then finally between her legs. 

As he brushed his fingers against her wet heat, she curved against the bed, letting out a moan. He stroked the length of her cunt, rubbing patterns that made her legs spread further, her hips rise up to meet his hand. His fingers bracketed her clit, massaging it, and he watched her as he did so, fascinated. Her hands grasped at the bed, at his arm, her body flushed red, and he felt like he could do this all night. Just working her with his tongue and fingers, making her come apart again and again. But when her eyes snapped open to look at him, he decided enough was enough.

He set himself between her legs, stroking her thighs as he moved them to make room. He went to reach down, to press himself into her, but keeping his balance on the golden hand was difficult. 

“Here…” She reached between her legs and took hold of him again, meeting his eyes as she guided his cock to her. She was slick against him, and he gasped as he pushed into her, her heat steadily surrounded him. He kept his eyes on her as he moved, giving her a chance to get used to it, his hand fisting on the bed as he fought the need to go faster. Her hips rolled up against his, like a reflex, and he gasped harshly as she squeezed around him. 

At first, it seemed to Jaime that their bodies were working on different timelines, their hips moving clumsily, senseless with stimulation. But then at last she met his rhythm, and it became like everything they did together eventually did - curiously harmonious. He had never danced with her, but he imagined if he had it would be the same. Him fumbling steps, her stepping on his toes and then, finally, synchronised. 

Though, he wasn’t sure how much longer it could be maintained. His hand kept skidding on the furs, and when Brienne reached round to grip his ass, pull him further into her, he nearly fell on top of her.

"Careful,” he laughed, “Unless you want me face first in your breasts, which I wouldn’t exactly complain about.”

She looked thoughtful for a moment, and then moved her hands up to his back, locked her legs tight around him.  Then suddenly, the room was turning and he was beneath her. He stared up at her as she shifted, straddling him now.

“I thought this might be better,” she said, after a moment.

He cleared his throat. “Oh, absolutely.”

She grinned, all teeth, and set one hand on the bed to steady herself as she began to ride him. With the first rock of her hips, he cried out, too overstimulated to stop himself. With the sensations crashing over him, he could only arch back against the bed, heedless of anything but her body on his. It was a struggle to keep his eyes open, but he wanted - needed - to look at her. 

Her brow was knotted in concentration, her lips parted, and when he fumbled between their bodies to rub at her clit, she let out a moan that went hoarse. She looked down at him, and he felt himself about to tip over the edge. 

“There,” he murmured, barely aware of what he was saying, “that’s it.” 

Her body went still then, and her left hand thumped heavily onto the bed as she came, clenching around him. He couldn’t have held on then, even if he had wanted to. His orgasm seized his whole body, hand frantically clutching at her thigh as he spilled into her. 

He wasn’t sure how long he lay there, striving for breath in the too-hot room and wondering if he might actually pass out. But it was only when he felt Brienne begin to climb off him that he became aware he had closed his eyes. She flopped gracelessly onto her stomach beside him, shoulders rising and falling, sweat glinting on her skin from exertion and the fire. His body was also covered with sweat, making the fur stick to bits of him in a very unpleasant way, but he was too ruined to move a muscle. 

She turned her head to look at him, damp hair falling in her eyes, and without thinking too hard about it he reached up and brushed it out of her face. Her eyes twinkled in the low light, and she looked exquisitely content. 

Suddenly, she said: “You really are an idiot.”

His brain stalled, frowning as he laboured to understand what had warranted that comment. “I know this was your first time, but if this is your idea of pillow talk--”

She shook her head. “ _ Tormund? _ You really believed my mind was on anyone else?”

It would be too easy to get flustered by that last statement, so he skipped over it. “Well, I don’t  _ know _ . You’re a confusing woman.”

“Oh, really? I’ve been told I’m quite blunt.” She raised her eyebrows at him meaningfully.

“Be that as it may, I didn’t know if you had some giant mating ritual going on that I wasn’t aware of.”

Her eyes narrowed. “Watch your tongue.”

“You have complaints about my tongue, do you?” he asked, feigning surprise.

She looked suspiciously like she wanted to thump him then, but was either too generous or too exhausted to act on it.

“You could have asked.”

“I thought I did?”

She made a face at him. “Asked  _ properly _ .”

He made an expansive gesture with his hands, as if to say,  _ well, it all worked out, didn't it? _

She looked away from him then, suddenly pensive. “Anyway, I think I had more cause than you to worry about that.”

His throat felt tight as he absorbed her meaning, and he tried to deflect: “You thought I wanted to fuck Tormund?”

Brienne looked hard at him. “Jaime.”

He didn’t want to talk about Cersei right now. He wanted to make another joke, or kiss Brienne into silence, but that wasn’t fair, not when she had trusted him so blatantly, with her honesty and her body. And more than that.

He owed her his honesty.

He took a moment to sort his words, not wanting to say the wrong thing. “Cersei… was everything to me, for a very long time. I existed selfishly, for only her, and for our children.” He paused. “Loved my brother, of course, and I tried to do right by him. Always _ tried _ . But my mind was always on her.” He glanced at Brienne, but her expression was unreadable, so he continued. “I wanted to make things easier for her.”

“But all her cruelty,” Brienne said, bewildered, “surely you see it. Don’t you think there’s consequences to that?”

Jaime sighed, not out of impatience at Brienne, but at the effort to explain it properly. “She is hateful, I do know that. But living with her my whole life, I have seen her suffer, in a way that no one had much sympathy for. Certainly not our father. I could ease it, that suffering, and she eased mine. I felt I knew who I was when I was with her, had a…” He gestured with his left hand. “Purpose? Perhaps? And she accepted me with all my shortcomings. With my selfishness.” He deliberated before adding the next part. “I was not the Kingslayer to her.”

There was a flash of self-consciousness on Brienne’s face, and he knew she had understood the impact of what he said. He had spent years being called Kingslayer, both to his face and to his back. He had done many terrible things, for his family yes, but terrible all the same. But killing Aerys was, for years, the last act he truly believed was right. That _ Brienne _ calling him Kingslayer cut so deep, had perhaps been his first clue, even though he hadn’t understood it at first.

He went on: “But living that way, us against the world, it was poisonous. I didn’t truly realise that until I met you.” It was hard to meet her eyes now, but he made himself do it, so that she would believe him. “Staying true, as you do, in our world, that takes strength.  _ You  _ reminded me what honour was.  _ You  _ gave me a purpose. You held me accountable and yet… you trusted me. Fought beside me. I wanted to be better for you, not worse. That’s why I came here.” He swallowed. “ _ You’re _ why I came here.”

Brienne stared at him for a moment, eyes shining slightly. She looked as if she wanted to say something, but instead she reached across and touched his face, thumb rubbing against his cheek. She leaned over and pressed her lips to his, gentle but lingering, and when she broke the kiss she leaned her forehead against his. 

“You believed in me too,” she whispered, as if someone else might hear. “I’m a knight, thanks to you.”

“You already were,” Jaime said, because it was true. “I just gave you the title.”

“Yes, but you didn’t have to.” She sighed, and he felt her breath against his neck. “Not even Renly thought to make me a knight.”

He almost pointed out that Renly wasn’t technically a king, but he didn’t think that would be well-received. And honestly, if he were Renly that wouldn’t have stopped him. 

“They keep a book of all the knights of the realm, and each has a page detailing their exploits. One day, I’m going to write yours.” 

She sat back enough to look at him properly, excitement lighting her face. “Oh yes?”

“Yes. Ser Brienne of Tarth: seduced poor Ser Jaime Lannister. Lured him all the way to the north to get his balls frozen off--”

She climbed on top of him then, sneaking a hand between them, and he lost his train of thought.

*

Since Jaime had come to the north, he had not slept well. Despite the wine and the sex, that night was no different, but there was one very distinct improvement. Beside him, Brienne slept soundly, face a mask of peace, her shoulders just visible above the bedclothes. One of her legs was pressed against his, one hand resting next to his shoulder. He wanted to commit this sight to memory.

Whatever came of the war, he had this.

***

With the White Walkers destroyed, and the focus back on King’s Landing, Brienne was mostly busy with training soldiers and strategy meetings over the next few days, and any time they spent together during the day was usually over meals. However, Jaime never returned to the poky room they had grudgingly given him, for now that he had Brienne’s bed he did not intend to leave it. 

He felt different since that first night, lighter. For all that he had talked about being himself around Cersei, it had still been a constant tension. They were always fighting to cover their tracks, and he was always trying to keep up with whatever she was calculating, all their new enemies. Because her enemies  _ had _ to become his - it was an unspoken rule - and at times, it ate away at him. Sometimes, just because it was exhausting, unwarranted, and other times because it caused him agony. As it did with Tyrion.

There were no such games with Brienne. This was what it meant, Jaime realised, to be in a normal relationship. To relate to all the embarrassing, romantic songs and tales about love and the magic of it, rather than just the ones about vengeful, deceitful lovers. People were beginning to notice, too. 

Brienne, despite all the shit that she had been dragged through, was still a romantic at heart, and she was less self-conscious of her affection, and it was beginning to rub off on him. Very few people in Winterfell spoke to Jaime, but he would often catch Tyrion and Sansa giving him knowing looks, Podrick too. One day he had been loitering in the halls, waiting for Brienne after a meeting, and when she came out talking to Sansa, the latter had noticed him first and smiled to herself.  

He found himself daydreaming like a child about a life with Brienne, after the war. If Sansa remained at Winterfell, then it was likely Brienne would too - she had taken an oath, after all - which meant that he would have to live there permanently. He was no part of any Kingsguard; he had no real allegiance to Daenerys and he doubted very much she would want his service anyway, all things considered. And he had never exactly kept to his vows, at least not where fathering children was concerned.

Moving north was… not ideal, especially with winter looming on the horizon, but he tolerated the cold and the darkness for her. With each moment he spent with her, he became more convinced that he was meant to share her life, and fight under her command if she ever needed it again. And if duty took her back to Tarth, well then he would follow her there, with all that entailed.

In his most private, idealistic moments, he thought: Maybe one day, if she wanted, he could even give her the heir she felt her family was owed. If for no other reason.

***

One night, they had been lying in comfortable silence, his head on her chest, when she took a deep breath. 

“They’ll be heading down to King’s Landing in the next few days,” she said suddenly, her voice tight with apprehension, “I’m... going to stay here. My place is with Sansa.” There was a heaviness at the end of her sentence, as if she was waiting for something, and then he realised she was trying to gauge whether he wanted to go to King’s Landing too. She was too afraid of his answer to ask.

How long had this been preying on her mind?

He had absolutely no intention of going down there. His oath was to Brienne, as far as he was concerned, not Daenerys, and no good could come of him being near Cersei. He thought about all the meandering words he could use to try and ease Brienne’s worries, but realised the best thing to say was the most concise. 

“And mine is with you.”

He felt her relax, and her right hand came up to stroke his hair. But Jaime found he couldn’t relax. He had begun to think properly about what might happen if they lost, if Cersei’s and Euron Greyjoy’s men marched to conquer the north. 

If they prevailed, and Cersei got her hands on Brienne, what would she do to her?

***

“We head to King’s Landing tomorrow,” Tyrion told Jaime, as they sat in a tavern, a typical roaring Northern fire at their backs. Jaime had almost started to get used to it, and he hated that.

He tried to discern a trace of uncertainty in Tyrion, but he could find none. Nor indeed could he see any particular conviction. “How confident are you, truly?” 

Tyrion shrugged. “We have two dragons. Which is two more than they have!” He lifted his cup in a mock-toast. “And Euron’s fleet is formidable, certainly. But he’s volatile. I doubt his men have the discipline of the Unsullied, or the patience of the Northerners.”

“Nor the brains of Tyrion Lannister!” Jaime noted.

Tyrion squinted at him. “I can’t tell if you’re… mocking me.”

Jaime smiled against the rim of his cup, but said nothing.

“Hmm.” Tyrion rubbed hard at his eyes, and Jaime noticed how dark the circles under them were. He wondered if Tyrion had been getting much more sleep than he had, or toiling over maps and sketches of the Red Keep into the night. Tyrion picked up his cup and peered into it, as if trying to divine something. “What will you do?”

Jaime shifted in his seat, and tried to sound casual. “Brienne is sworn to protect the Stark girls, so she’s staying here. And so am I.”

He noticed a subtle relaxing of Tyrion’s shoulders, and understood it as relief.  _ Relief I’m not going back to our sister. _

“Staying with Brienne.” Tyrion’s lips quirked at the corners, and Jaime narrowed his eyes at him.

“Go on then, say something snide.”

“No!” He set his cup down heavily, tapping a hand on Jaime’s arm. “I am happy you’re happy.”

“I am,” Jaime admitted, tentative. He was still waiting for Tyrion to spoil it.

“And I’m  _ very _ happy you now know what it is to climb for it.”

Jaime laughed, incredulous. 

A sour thought hit him then, as Tyrion went on teasing, that this could be the last chance he got to drink and laugh with his brother. Tomorrow Tyrion would head south with Daenerys and her armies, and he could well be killed, even if Daenerys won. Cersei might even be the one to do it.

She had hesitated before, squandered many chances. Despite her treatment of Tyrion, Jaime knew that she held a thin thread of loyalty to him, just enough to have kept him alive. That frail alliance had come from surviving Tywin together, of being deemed inferior children by virtue of her gender and his being a dwarf. And there was an acknowledgement of Tyrion’s loyalty to both her and Jaime despite her cruelty. But it could not last forever. Who knew what bridges Cersei would have to burn, if she meant to win?

***

Two and half weeks had passed since Tyrion had gone south, and the nights of minimal sleep were taking their toll on Jaime. Sometimes, if he and Brienne had had sex he might doze off for half an hour, but then he would usually stir again, and find himself staring at the ceiling as he thought about his siblings. 

It was absurd really, that with everything that was hanging in the balance, it was anxiety over his family that was tormenting him again. And it wasn’t as though he didn’t care about the outcome, objectively. Too many people had already died senselessly, and he hadn’t fought the Walkers with every fragment of energy and will just to have all those people destroyed in war. He didn’t know this Targaryen girl, whether her will was like her father’s, and what she might do if she took the throne. Conversely, if Daenerys failed then the uncertainty might mean a Westeros at war for the next century.

But he was not part of that fight now, and so it came down to his own personal battles. Should he have gone to protect Tyrion? And was it unconscionable, even after all she had done, to leave Cersei to die alone? His heart was with Brienne, but Cersei was still his sister, and she still carried his child.

These disjointed thoughts pulled him out of bed one night, with a fine snow whistling against the windows of his and Brienne’s room. He dressed quietly as he could, and slipped from the room. For several minutes he wandered the halls as he often did, listening to the sound of snores and late-night conversations, the wind outside the walls, trying to let it calm him, maybe lull him back to bed. But as usual, it didn’t work. On other nights he had gone to the library, but his vision was almost blurring from tiredness, and the idea of walking around until his legs got too tired made him impatient.

He found himself in the yard, saddling a horse, feeling half in a dream as insomnia made one do. It took a few seconds for him to become aware of crunching footsteps, and when he looked up and saw Brienne, he thought he might be dreaming it too. Her clothes had been fastened hastily, and she was still tying her cloak around her shoulders. Had she even been asleep when he left?

She looked from the horse to him, and there was a quiet dread on her face. Slowly, he realised how it must look.

“I was going for a ride. I can’t sleep,” he murmured, “I haven’t been sleeping.” 

She sighed heavily, both with relief and exasperation, he imagined. “So you’re going to go out alone at night, on a horse, in the snow?” 

He looked at the gentle flakes falling around them. “It’s not that bad.”

She stepped closer to him and took his hand, clasping it between her own. “You’ll fall off. Come back to bed.”

He shook his head. “I can’t.” He looked down at her hands around his own. She had forgotten to put gloves on.  _ Her fingers will freeze,  _ he thought dimly. He raised them to his mouth and kissed her knuckles, blowing slightly on the skin. She watched him do it, a tenderness in her eyes that was almost unbearable. He held her hands under his chin, against his neck. “I lie there and I think about Tyrion, and I wonder if I should be down there protecting him. And…” He took a deep breath, wondering if he should really say this to Brienne. “I think about Cersei, and if I betrayed her by leaving. Betrayed her as a brother, I mean. And the child.”  He didn't mention his fear of what Cersei might do to Brienne. It seemed like giving that fear a voice might make it real, and she would likely only point out that she could take care of herself. 

Brienne gazed off at nothing for a moment, some point in middle-distance, her brow creasing, her mouth tight. There was a sadness in her eyes that turned Jaime’s stomach, and he hurried to reassure her.

“I’m staying.” He squeezed her fingers gently so she would look at him. “I’m  _ staying _ . And I know it probably doesn’t make sense to you but, I suppose, I made a vow. Of sorts. Maybe an unspoken vow, but a vow all the same. And I feel like I’m breaking it.”

She looked hard at him for a moment, and then removed her hands from his. A bolt of panic went through him, but then she reached up and cradled his head in her hands so that she had his attention.

“Listen to me. You have given her more loyalty and more sacrifice than she deserves,” she said, and there was something firm, almost vengeful in her tone. “I know your history. I understand she’s your sister. But you can only do so much for her, and she is  _ never _ going to change. You have. Sansa is safe because you kept your word. Good people are alive because you kept your word.” She stroked her thumbs against his cheeks. “I’m alive.”

He lifted his hand to clasp hers, and he gazed at her dumbstruck. Her eyes were blazing with indignance, and there was snow drifting into her hair. In his hazy state, she seemed to him miraculous, otherworldly. He wanted to kiss her, but he also didn’t want to stop looking at her.

“As for Tyrion,” she continued, a little more gently, “he has survived plenty of battles without you, and he will survive this one. So, if you think about going down there, I will ride after you and drag you back myself.” She straightened her shoulders, emphasising her height. “If I have to cuff you again, so be it.”

Jaime smiled despite himself. “Hm. I thought you were supposed to be talking me  _ out _ of it?”

She rolled her eyes, but he could see her pressing her lips together, trying not to laugh. To his disappointment, she let go of his face to rub her hands together. She looked over at the horse, then, considering.

“Let’s go for a ride,” she said.

He blinked at her. “I thought it was too dangerous?”

“I’ll be behind you.” She glanced around them, the snow barely visible now. “And it’s not that bad.”

*

Jaime took the horse at a careful pace around the grounds, with Brienne at his back and her arms around his waist, tucked inside his cloak. It was oddly peaceful, as if time was standing still, and with her warmth against him and her breath against his neck, he could almost appreciate the beauty of Winterfell. Even the damage done to the castle looked picturesque, the snow covering the scars made by the battle in the land. 

He found himself telling her silly things about himself that drifted into his head, the fatigue breaking down those unnecessary barriers. He told her about games he had played as a boy, tricks he had played on the servants at Casterly Rock, his very first sword fighting lesson, and how he had felt sick the first time a blade had pierced his skin. How, when he was little, he had thought Highgarden was just a enormous rose garden with no castle, and Winterfell was made of sculpted snow.

In return, she told him about what a disaster she had been as a little lady. Turning up at dinner with torn dresses, and skinned knees, fashioning a sword to play with out of anything vaguely stick-like. He made her tell him in detail of all the suitors she had defeated in a fight, revelling at the glee in her voice as she did so.

_ What would those fools say,  _ he thought,  _ if they saw who she chose? _

When they finally got back to their room, he shrugged off his outer clothes and undressed her carefully, easing her back onto the bed. As he coaxed her thighs apart, he found all the words he had kept on his tongue - too cowardly to say - falling from his lips. How incredible she was, how strong, how brave. As he trailed his fingers from her breasts down to her wet heat, he told her of all the songs they would write about her, even if he had to write the first one. And as he slid his tongue inside her and she arched her hips off of the bed, he knew he was exactly where he was supposed to be.

Afterwards, while her breathing was still settling, he crawled up the bed and pulled the covers over them both, pressing a kiss to her neck, then her face, then her mouth.

He looked at her for a moment, her eyelids already fluttering, her face turning to press against his shoulder, and he found himself saying: “I love you.”

Her eyes flashed open then, and he saw her take a moment to absorb it, overcome the surprise. It was just a few moments, but he felt his heart thudding in anticipation until she said: “I love you too.” She pressed a kiss to the corner of his mouth, and he sighed in relief before she snuggled close to him.

That night, sleep found Jaime again.

***

Even in the south, the light was not as bright as it once was. King’s Landing was no longer bleached with sun, and Jaime was beginning to wonder if the snow would start finding its way down to coat the buildings. He could almost hear Ned Stark’s words reverberating grimly through the streets.

_ Winter is coming. _

He rolled his eyes and went back to searching for the book; it wasn’t where it had been the last time he had seen it, and when he found it he was surprised to find how many hasty additions there had been. His lip curled as he flipped through the new names, disgusted at all the fools and brutes who had been given a knighthood by Cersei during the war. A bargaining chip for their loyalties.

Eventually, he found a blank page and set about writing in his neatest hand, which wasn’t terribly neat. He hadn’t practised handling a pen with his left as much as he had a sword, so it was a very slow, painstaking experience. He was not very far in when he heard the door open behind him, and footfalls stop just short of his chair.

“What are you doing?” Brienne asked.

He didn’t take his eyes off the page, afraid he would lose control of the word he was on. “Why don’t you come and look?”

She came to peer over his shoulder, and began reading under her breath: “ _ Ser Brienne of Tarth, appointed to the Kingsguard of King Renly Baratheon in _ -” 

“And don’t make fun of my handwriting. This is harder than it looks.”

She was silent for a moment, and when she spoke again it was faint with disbelief. “You’re… writing my page.”

“Well, I said I was going to!” He turned to look at her, and was hit by a heavy wave of fondness when he saw the wonder on her face. She looked over at him, that expression he had come to accept as unguarded love. She stood close against the back of his chair, one hand on his shoulder. “Are you going to watch me?”

“Yes, why not?”

“Because this is probably going to take an hour. With you looming over my shoulder it will take two.”

She sighed and went around the table, peering at the other tomes on the shelf. As was habitual, her sword hand was resting on the hilt of Oathkeeper, as if she expected a troupe of bandits to come flying through the door at any moment. He couldn’t exactly mock her though. In her armour, she always cut an impressive figure, body held up sharply like a sculpture.

It was very distracting, actually.

She caught him looking. “What are you staring at?”

He tilted his head at her. “You.”

“I thought you were supposed to be concentrating.”

“I was!” he insisted, voice going comically high. “Until you came in.”

“Then perhaps I should leave.” She walked around the table, as if making her way to the door, face coldly stern. For a moment he thought she was actually angry, and then just as suddenly, it dissolved into a cheeky smile.

He shook his head, disbelieving. “Come here,” he told her. 

She went to him without hesitation, and he pulled her down into a kiss, fingers tangling in her short hair. She cupped his cheek, and he found himself getting carried away, coaxing her mouth open to brush his tongue against hers. 

It went on for what seemed both an age, and not enough, before he broke the kiss, lightheaded. 

“Sit down,” he said, “and then you can read it when I’m  _ done _ .”

Brienne smirked and took a seat at the other side of the table, watching him silently as he wrote. 

When he was a boy, Jaime had been fascinated by the knights in the stories. Brave, handsome, a force for good that inspired the loyalty of others. He had idolised them. But as he grew up, he believed in them less and less, and he lost sight of why he had wanted to be a knight in the first place.

But now he knew that fairytale knight was real. After all, she was sitting in front of him.

**Author's Note:**

> This ended up way longer than I expected. I left the end ambiguous in terms of the queen/king situation because although I certainly have my preference, that wasn't the point of this fic and I didn't want it to distract from it. 
> 
> Honestly, I wouldn't even know how to make something coherent from the fucking mess D&D left behind.
> 
> (I tell you something though, it's not Bran.)


End file.
